


The Natural Order

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Demon Dean is kind of a dick sometimes, He is the King of Hell Ok, M/M, Not-At-All-Concerned Crowley, Season/Series 10, Sick Castiel, mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't interested in killing Castiel. Time-consuming and messy business, killing angels. Not to mention, a waste of a pretty face. </p><p>But Crowley sees no harm in popping in for a visit. Just because he does not intend to take Castiel's life does not mean he can't gloat at Castiel's expense. And oh, does Crowley intend to gloat... </p><p>--</p><p>Takes place before 10x01</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Natural Order

Crowley is having the time of his life. ...After-life. Whatever. 

Dean Winchester has taken to demon-hood like a fish to water. He's drowned himself in cheap booze, slutted around with the local looseys, and ganked anything Crowley puts in front of him. The puzzle now is, how will Crowley convince little Squirrel to consent to a business partnership _with him_? Given their delightful history, this will take time.

In the meantime, Crowley has had the opportunity to loosen his tie and take a break from his everyday responsibilities. Drink a little beer (far from his beloved Craig, but tolerable after a few pints). Screw a few pretty birds. 

Work is never far from his mind, however. Updates come in daily from the home office. Crowley has a Hell to run, after all. That Hell is a backstabbing, unstable place... And dreadfully dull at times. Procuring souls, conversion rates, crossroad deal record-keeping. Blah, blah, blah.

This vacation with the elder Winchester has reminded Crowley that even the King of Hell needs to indulge himself every now and then.

Most of Crowley's daily briefings are a waste. Some human trying to use hudu to get out of a contract, and the like. But a few are more interesting. Like Sam Winchester, injured in a raid on a demon nest. Turns out, everybody's favorite cloud jumper was there. Folded like a blanket mid-battle, left Gigantor open to injury. And the cherry on top? The little pixie was too grace-drained to heal Big Baby Winchester. Tsk tsk. 

"My king," an enthusiastic old voice rasps over his phone. "The angel Castiel is fading. Now is the perfect time to strike."

Crowley dismisses the idea. Castiel does a fine enough job getting killed on his own. What is he on, his fourth or fifth resurrection? 

Besides, Castiel still has his uses. From time to time.

Updates on this front go quiet for awhile. Strange, Crowley expected Paul Bunyan and Tinkerbell to stumble upon them by now. Little Sammy is out interrogating demons, this much Crowley knows.

But what of fallen Castiel? Crowley's scouts have nada to report, and nothing is picked up on the satellite tuned to Angel Radio.

Shame about Cecily. That was truly an ingenious breakthrough.

But news finally comes. Crowley's cellphone is handed to him, a break from drunk Dean Winchester warbling "I'm Too Sexy" to the boos of the local patrons. Crowley is down a few dozen pints, enough to think Dean's slurred attempt at the tune isn't half-bad.

"Now is the time, King," the old ghoul grounds over the phone. "The angel Castiel is bed-ridden. Knocking on Death's door, they say."

"Splendid," Crowley says. "And Death is not a fan of our little choir boy. You've done well...whatever your name is." He hangs up before the demon can enlighten him.

He isn't interested in killing Castiel at the moment. Time-consuming and messy business, killing angels. Not to mention, a waste of a pretty face. 

But Crowley sees no harm in popping in for a visit. Just because he does not intend to take Castiel's life does not mean he can't gloat at Castiel's expense. And oh, does Crowley intend to gloat... 

He lets himself into the sparse motel room. Curious, no angel or demon proofing. This seems like stupidity or incredible hubris. Is it possible the old coot gave him the wrong address? This motel looks like it has not been lived in in decades. The wallpaper is faded and peeling. Dust litters the floor. It is freezing cold inside, which seems impossible with the summer heat outdoors.

The address is correct, though. Castiel is lying on the bed, under a crumpled sheet.

Hm, a bedded Castiel. This is normally a good start to their encounters.

But, it seems Crowley's spy was also correct about Castiel's state. He looks absolutely dreadful. Castiel is pale and shuddering. But, most disconcerting, the angel is fast asleep. Dead to the world, his chest rising and falling with ragged, wheezing breaths.

So, this is what it means for an angel to be poisoned by stolen grace. Fascinating. Crowley approaches the bed and peers down with the intrigue of a scientist.

"Hello, angel," Crowley says.

Gleefully, he imagines Castiel's horror at waking and realizing the predicament he's in. But Castiel does not stir.

Crowley places a curious hand on his forehead. "Damn it, Cas," he mutters. His vessel is burning up. And not in the sexy 'celestial orgasmic bliss' way.

Which Crowley has experienced on more than one occasion, thank you.

Crowley's touch is too much for Castiel to sleep through. He jerks back, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

When he realizes who touched him, Castiel's glare turns murderous. "Crowley," he grits, "what are you-" Castiel cannot finish. All of a sudden, he is coughing violently against a closed fist. The hacks rattle painfully in his chest. 

A part of Crowley is disgusted. Yes, he was warned that Sparkles was ripe for the taking. But he assumed this to mean that Castiel was...a little tired? Some bags under the eyes, perhaps? 

This? This is full-blown hairless ape, complete with germ parade.

But, Crowley is also fascinated. High and mighty Angel of the Lord, reduced to this? My, how the powerful fall.

Castiel attempts to catch his breath, wheezing on every inhale. When he finally makes eye contact again, his gaze is wet at the corners. "Here to kill me?" Castiel asks. By his glum tone, even he knows how stupid the question sounds.

Oh, the violent taunting Crowley should give him. But making fun of this disaster is a waste of good material. it almost seems unfair.

Crowley shrugs. "You don't need any help dying, angel."

Crowley strolls around the perimeter of the bed. Castiel keeps his wary glare trained on the demon. But ultimately, even this is too much effort, and the angel lets his eyes drop.

Castiel pushes himself to a seated position. He loses some of the sheet's protection in doing so. Just the departure of this light layer is enough to make him shiver. Castiel pulls his robe tighter around himself. 

But he does not adjust the garment fast enough. Crowley sees that Castiel is totally commando under the robe. Is the King of Hell _not_ supposed to acknowledge a naked body presented to him so carelessly? He lets his gaze linger long after the robe has been adjusted.

When Crowley catches Castiel's eyes again, the angel is shaking his head with disapproval.

"What have you done to Dean?" Castiel asks.

Crowley groans. "Oh, come now. Can't we just chat for once, Cas? No Winchester talk? I'll regale you with tales from the Pit. You can tell me about...disease and death, or whatever you're about these days. Surely, we have more interesting things to discuss than the adventures of Moose and Squirrel."

"What have you done to Dean?" Castiel repeats. The words are quieter, more dangerous. For a moment, Crowley actually believes Castiel has the juice to put up a fight.

"I've done nothing," Crowley replies. "It's the Mark."

Faced with this truth, Castiel's threatening expression softens to concern. Crowley snorts. "Wonderful. When it's _Crowley's_ fault, you're ready to turn that angel mojo to eleven. But as soon as I rule myself out as villain of the week..."

He trails off. Speaking no longer seems worth it, as Castiel likely cannot hear him over his new coughing fit. The force of it leaves him doubled over. Castiel clutches the edges of his robe with shaking fingers.

Crowley dips an awkward hand into his jacket pocket. This is no fun, he decides.

Angel of the Lord and Demon-King of Hell. Their clash has been pre-destined by nature. He has to admit, he's enjoyed this struggle for power despite the occasional misfires. Bad business deals and such. Setbacks only make success sweeter, after all.

But the thrill of victory is based on defeating a worthy foe. This Castiel is too weak to be enjoyed. Where's the fun in clobbering a ball of wet fur?

Ah. They've been here before, haven't they?

"Bloody hell, Cas," Crowley mutters, because it is the only thing he can think to say.

"That's...why he didn't die," Castiel gasps out. Crowley squints at the tears the angel is rushing to scrub from his face. "The Mark. It refused to let go."

"Bingo," Crowley replies. "You're brighter than you look, kitten."

For a moment, his feathered foe is back, glaring up at him. But the moment is short-lived, and Castiel's affront fades into misery. He averts his wet eyes, maybe just as reluctant to be seen like this as Crowley is to see him. 

"Where is Dean now?" Castiel asks. He sounds tired.

"That's for me to know and you to find out, isn't it?" Crowley considers this. "Or...not to find out. I haven't decided yet. Just know, if you do find him, he may not be as pleased at the rescue as you'd hoped."

Castiel manages some anger at the insinuation, but Crowley can tell he doesn't doubt what he's been told. Deep down, Castiel knows that Dean has not been stolen. Dean is choosing not to return. The question is, why.

Crowley won't let that secret out of the bag yet. What, and deny himself the pleasure of Sam and Cas' faces when they realize their righteous hero has gone full Smoky Eyes?

"Is he in Hell?" Castiel asks.

Crowley considers lying. What a thrill it would be to convince Castiel that his favorite pet is back in the Pit. The carnage on Castiel's face would be a delight, even in this miserable state.

But, Crowley shrugs. For some reason, he doesn't have it in him. "No," he answers instead. "Better beers on tap among the living. Fancy that."

This is the part where Castiel should spring up and grab Crowley by the lapels. He should demand to know where Dean is. Shake Crowley hard enough to cause demonic whiplash. Break a wall or two, throwing Crowley's weight around. And, if Crowley truly chapped his ass, maybe he'd get a free light show from those pretty blue eyes.

Crowley waits for it. And waits.

But he gets no grabbing, pushing, or eye-sparks. He only gets Castiel with his hands in his lap. "Oh," the angel says. "Good." Defeated without a fight.

"You're pathetic," Crowley mutters. He is disappointed. And...concerned, perhaps?

No. Not concerned. Impossible.

Castiel sighs. "You can go.".

This hits a nerve. "Yes," Crowley barks. "I can go wherever I damn well please. Without the permission of a croaking chimp!"

Castiel does not argue. He just lies back down and draws his sheet around himself. Shivering, he turns his back to Crowley.

Did the angel just...dismiss him? 

Castiel makes a soft sound of surprise when he is forced onto his back, pinned by hands that never could have held him when he was fueled by his own grace. He looks up into the fury-red glare of the King of Hell.

"Why are you on top of me?" he asks.

Crowley scowls. In a blink, his demon eyes return to their human darkness. "Of all the damn cloud sitters, I get the angel with a death wish," he mutters. "What's the damn point?"

It would be simple for Crowley to kill him now. So very simple!

"What do you want?" Castiel asks.

"Right now? I'd settle for you growing a set," Crowley grumbles. He makes a grand physical show of his power, digging bruises into Castiel's arms. His knee is set against Castiel's ribs, prepared to snap them at any moment. 

Everything is an act. Castiel's weakness trembles under Crowley's weight. He could not move even if Crowley was not holding him down. 

True to this, Castiel does not struggle. Crowley half-wishes he would. It would be futile, yes, but it would at least show some fight. Instead, Castiel keeps his head turned and does nothing.

Very well then. If Castiel will not fight, Crowley will plunder as he pleases. He drops his head to Castiel's neck and mouths the fever flush on his skin. He tastes warm, fragile. Crowley drags his tongue over his itching Adam's apple, his swollen throat.

"Crowley." Castiel sighs wearily.

Then, Castiel makes a sound of discomfort. He looks confused, brow furrowed and mouth parted to suck in a breath.

Crowley eyes him curiously. When he gets it, he releases one of Castiel's arms, just in time for Castiel to cover a sneeze in his palm. The angel blinks slowly.

After a moment, his perplexed look turns towards Crowley. "It's a sneeze," Crowley grumbles.

"Yes," Castiel replies. He sounds uncertain. "They are...quite strange. Aren't they?"

Damn him.

Wordlessly, Crowley digs through his inside jacket pocket. He returns with a handkerchief, gray with a cursive 'C' embroidered in red. Crowley holds it out with gruff indifference.

Castiel looks at it, then at him. Crowley rolls his eyes. "Well, I'm not about to say 'bless you,' am I?"

"Thank you..." Castiel inspects the handkerchief, as if expecting it to be warded with some kind of devil trickery. Finding nothing of the sort, he rubs his nose against the fabric with relief, smothering another sneeze within its folds. The pink tint on his cheeks may no longer be just the fever.

Bollocks. Coming here was a mistake. Where is the old crone who revealed Castiel's location? Crowley owes his precious hell hounds a new chew toy.

"Not a word," Crowley mutters. Castiel tilts his head.

His confusion only deepens when the King of Hell removes his jacket and shoes. With these safely stored in what appears to be the cleanest part of the room, Crowley sits beside the angel. Back against the bed frame, Crowley allows his fingers to wander through Castiel's hair.

Castiel's eyes roll towards him suspiciously, anticipating some strange method of attack. What he gets is fresh water and pills in a prescription bottle. Both appear suddenly on the nightstand, and his twisted bed sheet is replaced by a far warmer flannel blanket.

Crowley keeps his fingers in Castiel's hair, looking out the window all the while.

"What-" Castiel starts to push himself up. He stops when Crowley's hand tightens in his hair. A clear warning.

"Not a word," the demon reminds him. "And no moving."

"This is ridiculous, Crowley," Castiel mutters. "Human medicine won't work. And this blanket is too hot-"

"Yes, because the way you were snuffling under that tea towel was acceptable." Crowley rolls his eyes. "For a creature who's lived for centuries, you, ducky, are a complete idiot."

Castiel frowns. "Why are you-"

"I said no talking, love." Crowley's thumb grazes Castiel's eyelids; first one, then the other. The touch is far too gentle for them, too intimate. But Castiel is drained. Sensing safety for the time being, and with a lack of better options, Castiel lets his eyes close. 

It's settled, then. Crowley will cure the angel to make his inevitable victory that much sweeter. Castiel must be mended so Crowley can savor tearing him back down. 

Yes, this is believable. And believable works for now.

***

Crowley's position is less believable a few hours later. His cellphone buzzes insistently in his jacket pocket. The jacket is still folded neatly in Castiel's motel room. Along with his shirt, his pants, and, oh yes, even his socks.

This has become ridiculous. But it is warm under the flannel blanket, and it is even warmer lying next to a fever-ridden, dying angel.

Somehow, the King of Hell has found himself on his back with the great Castiel snoring quietly on his shoulder. Oh, and Castiel has managed to shrug his bathrobe off beneath the blanket. X-Rated cuddles, what a thrill.

Castiel is still shivering a bit, even with their shared body heat. And sniffling a bit. And making other un-Castiel-like sounds of suffering.

Crowley does his best to let the poor dear sleep. Really, he'd like nothing more than to jump the angel's bones. The thought of fucking his fever-hot body, with those glassy eyes staring up at him, well...

This lust is embarrassing, but at least it is an improvement over Crowley's earlier mood. The awkward tightening in his chest, like he actually felt a twinge of worry for the angel's fate? Unacceptable.

Castiel takes a stuttered, stuffy breath and burrows deeper under the blanket. Crowley's body responds to the movement.

It may be sick and twisted to want to get his jollies off with a dying seraph. But hey, King of Hell. 'Sick and twisted' comes with the job description.

Crowley's lust does not explain why he leans over and kisses Castiel's forehead, though. Or why he kisses him between the eyes. Or on the chin. Or the bridge of his nose, which wrinkles ticklishly under his lips. Or his mouth, that Castiel opens slightly for him.

Ask and ye shall receive.

Crowley's lips linger here while he rubs knuckles down the angel's stomach. His body is strong and smooth - sickening how well his vessel has held up despite dying half a dozen times. Crowley's fingers sift through the soft hairs below his navel, and travel down into the coarser curls at the base of his shaft. Castiel sucks in a breath.

Whatever, Crowley is a demon. No moral obligations.

He wraps his fingers around Castiel's cock and gives him a stroke. Pleasantly, he finds that the angel's body is not totally in the grave. Crowley feels a twitch and a lazy roll of Castiel's hips. Castiel's brow wrinkles as if in thought, and his tongue dips out to wet his lip.

"Morning, love," Crowley greets. Only, it is late at night. He has little time. His absence will be noted soon, despite his warning to stay away or be smoked.

Castiel does not rouse. He tucks his head beneath the demon's jaw and sighs. With an impatient grumble, Crowley wraps his free hand around himself. Getting itchy fingers for a mucus-riddled angel...this has to be a new low.

But then, it's not the disease rousing Crowley's interest, is it? It's Castiel himself. Fragile, rasping Castiel. Completely at Crowley's mercy.

Crowley has been crushed through walls, enslaved, and betrayed by this damned bird. Now, Castiel is hunched helplessly against his side, his skin a sickly gray, deep circles rooted beneath his eyes. The natural order, turned entirely on its head.

The delicious smell of his weakness makes Crowley dip his hand lower, folding his thumb into the base of Castiel's shaft. Castiel's mouth opens as if to ask a question. But he makes a sound instead, husked and unsteady. His hips move into Crowley's touch.

Encouraged, Crowley curls his hand around Castiel's cock, thumb pressed more firmly into his base. His other fingers dangle casually down, rolling over his balls. Castiel stiffens, a strained note on his lips. The start of a name, perhaps?

Crowley waits for his desires to make themselves known. Will he say the name of the brunette beauty he's corresponded with on occasion since Dean's disappearance? Or maybe the elder Winchester himself? Human and guardian angel romance, how trite.

But when Castiel grits out "Crowley" in a low voice, Crowley frowns. He prepared himself for gloating at the expense of his angel, but now...hm. He supposes he should be flattered.

But Crowley isn't. Nor is he angry. He isn't sure what he is, to be honest.

He does know that he has an urge to kiss the panted breaths out of Castiel's mouth. So that is what Crowley does. Castiel sighs. Crowley slowly feels him stir, his mouth instinctively responding, sluggish and vague. 

Then, he makes a confused sound - how original, Castiel confused about something. "Crowley?" he rasps, sounding worse than before he slept.

Crowley does not care. He just tongues away any other words Castiel might be thinking of forcing on him. Apparently, Castiel is all right with this. His head sinks back, and his lips part, sucking gently on his lower lip.

It takes another moment for Castiel to groan, his body rousing to the hand trying to milk his cock to full thickness. "What are you doing?" Castiel asks.

Crowley narrows an 'Are you off your rocker again' look at him. But there is a twist of things he likes in Castiel's eyes: the sleepy haze, the glaze of fever, and the start of arousal. The demon's want for all of this softens his response to a less-harsh, "What's it feel like, angel? You could help, you know."

He makes his point by grabbing Castiel's hand and pulling it down to his dick. Castiel slides fingers around him slowly. He sucks in a breath when Crowley pulls his own cock none-too-gently in his fist  
.  
"Why are you..." Castiel pauses to thumb around the head of his shaft. He squeezes, and Crowley hums his approval.

"Look at me," Castiel insists. "I'm-"

...coughing. Quite unattractively, in Crowley's opinion. Castiel ducks his face against his pillow to cover the body-wracking fit.

Crowley waits impatiently for Castiel to compose himself. But minutes pass, and Castiel is still choking down wheezing breaths. The hand around Crowley's cock weakens dismally.

"You know, being bedfellows isn't nearly as fun when you can't hold up your end," Crowley mutters.

Castiel tries to glare at him. But he fails again, defeated by his all-too-human misery. The hand on Crowley's cock moves to drape over his side, fingers twitching on each rib.

"Do what you want," Castiel says. He closes his eyes and turns his face against his pillow again. Crowley does not miss the light wetness on his lashes. 

Free reign to do what he pleases? Oh, this is dangerous permission to give a demon. The things he could do!

But Crowley does not do any of them. And, deep down, Castiel knows he won't. Crowley can tell in the angel's complete disregard for his own safety. How he keeps his eyes closed and just mops weary fingers over his fever-hot brow. 

Crowley is utterly unsatisfied. And he can't even release his wrath, because his only victim would be this trembling leaf.

Castiel digs under his pillow for the handkerchief bestowed on him by the King of Hades. When he sneezes, his whole body spasms with pain. He holds the keepsake against his dry lips and reddened nose, groaning quietly.

What wrath does Crowley have for this?

"Bollocks," Crowley mutters, and promptly sits up. He needs to remove himself from this place. Immediately. 

"What do I do with..."

Crowley scowls at the handkerchief extended to him. "My God, keep your snot," he grumbles. "This is useless. _You_ are useless."

Castiel sighs. "It won't be long now."

"Moron!" Crowley snaps, drawing a raised brow from the bed. "What good are you to me dead?"

Castiel frowns. "I don't understand. Me...dead. It's what you've wanted."

"You are monumentally stupid, you know that?" Crowley cuts himself short before he says too much. "I'm done here."

Crowley stands and dresses himself quickly. He keeps his back towards the bed, no interest in facing the perplexed look the tree topper is giving him.

"Crowley." With his jacket on, Crowley allows himself to turn. Castiel is starting to sit up under the flannel sheet. His robe is still off, and Crowley drinks in the warding tattoo wound over his side.

His nipples are nice and stiff too. Crowley has fond memories from their business partner days of grabbing Castiel's shoulders while he sucked on those tight little buds. Bit and licked them, until he _felt_ Castiel moan for him.

"Please, do not hurt Dean," Castiel murmurs.

Do not hurt Dean...? Of all the things the idiot could say.

Crowley grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back so hard that Castiel hisses.

He pushes his face close to Castiel's ear. "I'm done hearing that name out of you, angel." His breaths are harsh on Castiel's neck. "Say it again. See what I'll do."

Maybe Castiel has the fire to push him. Or maybe he'll bend again, weak and resigned.

Crowley does not give him the opportunity to do either. He removes himself in a blink and returns to the bar.

Crowley has a seat at the counter. Dean joins him seconds later. His fists are caked with fresh blood. No doubt, that evening's karaoke performance has been as well received as the others. Normally, Crowley would want the scoop. He is not in the mood tonight.

"I'll take a Bud," Dean tells the bartender. "And a drink for my friend here. Make it pink and sexy." He claps Crowley's shoulder and shoots him a 'dare you to say something' grin. Crowley doesn't.

Demon Dean isn't the most perceptive incarnation of Big Brother Winchester, but he is cognizant enough of Crowley's dark mood to take a seat. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Duty calls," Crowley mutters.

Dean smells the conversation detour. "Hell business?" he asks. "Or personal?" At Crowley's silence, Dean pushes, "Off banging sexy lady-vamps again, Crowley?"

Crowley gives him his best glare. But, no doubt, it fails. Like Castiel. Damn him.

Dean is laughing when the bartender returns with their drinks. A bottle for Dean, something in a daiquiri glass with a plastic flamingo for Crowley. "Lady-vamps it is!" he declares. "What's the word, Crowley? How's a blood sucker at sucking other things? You can tell me."

"This is crass," Crowley grumbles, "even for you."

He seizes his pink drink, drains it in one go, and slams the glass on the counter so hard that it shatters. Unfazed by the mess or the eyes that snap towards him around the bar, Crowley leaves without a word.

Dean watches him go with a curious smirk. "O-kay," he murmurs. "That was weird."

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days, I will figure out how to give these two a happy fic...
> 
> Thanks for reading, and hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season! I'm on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi ^_^


End file.
